# data[].attributes.body
In Orson Welles' Citizen Kane cinematography and mise-en-scene are used to underscore Charles Foster Kane's need for control, especially over the women in his life, through the use of camera angles and composition. His relationship with Susan Alexander displays this notion best since her youth and inexperience leave her more vulnerable and susceptible to Kane's manipulation/dominance. Kane is often shot from low angles, making him appear larger and more authoritative. On the contrary, Susan is often framed from high angles that make her visibly smaller and meek in comparison to Kane. This use of camera angles displays the power imbalance between the two. One scene in particular would be the opera scene. Susan is left isolated on the stage, swallowed by the massive set and cruel audience while Kane is placed in a shadowed box above her, clapping forcefully to assert his will over her humiliation. The camera makes her appear trapped in this experience; one she never chose to be in, in the first place. Kane's looming presence ensures that she cannot escape. This sense of entrapment is carried into their home: Xanadu. The castle Kane builds for Susan is prison like in it's emptiness. Wide shots show Susan as a tiny figure, often placed in the corner (with her puzzles) surrounded by the emptiness of Xanadu and its halls. This visually reinforces how Kane's wealth and power trap Susan in a hellscape disguised as Luxury. In one scene with Susan and her puzzle, she is placed in the bottom of the screen with Kane standing tall behind her, regally in front of the grandiose fireplace, making her seated and slouched form appear powerless in comparison. These cinematic choices also reflect the culture of the earth 20th century, when men, particularly ones in power or who had immense wealth/status, often treated women as possessions or extensions of their power.

# data[].attributes.body
In Gene Kelly’s Singin’ in the Rain, the costuming plays a key role in the film’s mise en scène, particularly when contrasting Kathy Selden and Lina Lamont. The way each woman is styled visually communicates their personalities, status, and relationships within the narrative. Kathy’s costumes emphasize her authenticity and youthful charm. Often dressed in soft colors, modest silhouettes, and practical fabrics, she embodies the ideal of sincerity and natural talent. For example, in the “Good Morning” number, Kathy’s simple, soft purple skirt and blouse highlight her playful, down-to-earth energy and sense of partnership with Don and Cosmo. Later, when she sings behind the curtain to provide Lina’s voice, Kathy wears a girlish (almost innocent, even) pink tulle gown that is elegant yet understated and considerably less audacious in comparison to her counterpart, Lina. Her costume reflects her hidden role: she is the unexpected talent, the truth hidden behind a facade of glamour. These wardrobe choices visually reinforce her genuineness and adaptability to the changing Hollywood landscape.

Lina’s costumes, however, express her artificiality and reliance on appearance. She frequently wears extravagant gowns, feathered headpieces, jewels, and furs. She showcases glamour but not depth. The scene of the musical performance where Lina lipsyncs to Kathy's voice in front of a live audience encapsulates this contrast. Lina, center stage in a shining silver, flapper-esque getup, mouths the lyrics to a song she cannot sing, while Kathy, in a more modest dress, stands concealed behind the curtain, actually performing. Lina’s flashy costume draws attention but also highlights her dependence on spectacle to maintain her stardom. Once the curtain is pulled back, the truth of her phoniness is revealed, and her ornate ensemble can no longer mask her lack of talent.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
Singin' in the Rain (8/8) Movie CLIP - Switch-a-Roo (1952) HD

# data[].attributes.body
The Opening scene of Truffaut's The 400 Blows is a continuous tracking shot through the city of Paris, France. It opens with a dissolve from black to a shot of the Eiffel Tower behind a few buildings, as well as some barren trees on the left hand side. The camera work is shaky as we inch closer toward the Eiffel Tower, simulating that this scene is being viewed from the inside of a moving vehicle. As we move closer, the Eiffel Tower seems to disappear behind the buildings before the shot cuts to a different set of buildings, but we can still see the very top of the Eiffel Tower. The scene goes on, showcasing different buildings cover tower, yet part of it is always somewhat visible in the distance or through a gap between buildings. As the scene comes to a close, we finally see the Eiffel Tower in full. The camera even takes us under and through the Eiffel Tower before it is forced back into the distance.

In this scene, we are looking through our narrators point of view. The Eiffel Tower represents freedom and Antoine's desire for it. Throughout the film, there are moments where Antoine is close to freedom before being brought right back to the source of his entrapment: his parents. Within the final few moments of the film, Antoine is literally trapped in a Prison cell, and then at a juvenile detention center/boarding school. These obstacles Antoines faces are similar to the buildings that block our view of the Eiffel Tower in the opening segment. The final scene, where Antoine runs away from the boys home and is face to face with the one thing he's always wanted to see--the ocean--that is his moment of freedom; parallel to when we finally see the Eiffel Tower in the open ing scene. Though, for Antoine we are unsure what comes next for him in terms of freedom. In the opening scene, the Eiffel Tower is taken out of view once more, likely mirroring Antoine possibly being brought back to the boys home, as they had said before that those who run away often get caught in the end.

# data[].attributes.body
In one of the final few (chronologically, one of the first scenes, I suppose) moments of Christopher Nolan’s Memento (2000), our protagonist Leonard Shelby sits in his truck—a blue truck with a black and gray interior—after having killed Jimmy Grantz and listening to Teddy (John Gamell) admit to using Leonard as a hitman, unloading the bullets from his gun and looking over his Polaroids. Leonard looks at Teddy’s Polaroid first, which we are shown in a medium close up shot before cutting back to Leonard’s face also in a medium close up. His expression is contemplative before his eyes flick up, looking (presumably) at Teddy. He then looks back down at the Polaroid, narrating “can’t I just let myself forget what you’ve told me” and then flipping it over and taking out his pen to write “Don’t believe his lies”. After that, he pulls out his other two Polaroids, the ones of the men he had killed. Nolan primarily uses medium close up shots in this scene, only showing us either Leonard or the Polaroids. Once he has the Polaroids in hand, he then pulls out his lighter and ignites the Polaroids in flame, narrating “can’t I just let myself forget what you’ve made me do?” After he blows out the flames, and the Polaroids are all but ruined, he takes out an index card and places it on his steering wheel, pulling out his own again. The camera cuts to Teddy messing with bushes and then to Teddy’s car, focusing on his license plate. He then writes in the index card, “Tattoo: Fact 6, Car License SG13 7IU” while narrating “So you’re gonna be my John G”.

https://youtu.be/0Op_tlDc4BM?si=UmupZZMpGDq5lodI

Nolan’s mise-en-scène and cinematographic choices amplify Leonard’s internal struggle and the film’s obsession with memory and self-deception. The confined space of the truck, dominated by muted tones, visually mirrors Leonard’s psychological entrapment and the claustrophobic weight of his obsession with revenge. By keeping the camera at medium close-up for both Leonard and the Polaroids, Nolan forces the audience to inhabit Leonard’s perspective, emphasizing the intimate, almost ritualistic nature of his actions and underscoring the significance of these images as his sole anchors to truth. The narration and diegetic sounds—the soft scratch of pen on photo, the flick of the lighter, the brief whoosh of fire—creates a tangible sense of intimacy, making the destruction of the Polaroids feel both deliberate and violently transformative. Leonard’s voice-over, simultaneously contemplative and self-justifying, blurs the line between victim and manipulator, transforming the act of burning evidence into an act of narrative control; the medium close-ups capture the subtle flicker of his eyes and the deliberate gestures of writing, giving the audience a visual echo of his inner monologue. Even as the camera shifts briefly to Teddy, isolated in the background and obscured by foliage, the focus remains on Leonard’s meticulous construction of memory—highlighting the paradox of his agency: he chooses what to remember and what to fabricate, enacting a ritual that cements both his vengeance and his self-delusion. Through these filmic elements, Nolan shows us the fragility of Leonard’s cognition and the almost obsessive measures he takes to give himself a sense of control in a world where his memory cannot be trusted.

# data[].attributes.body
In David Lynch’s Mulholland Drive, the first scene introducing the hit man Diane later hires unfolds with an oddly comedic, almost dreamlike tone. The sequence opens on the hit man and a friend chatting in what appears to be a drab office space. Lynch frames them in a palette of muted yellows, greens, and browns, creating a soft, hazy environment where the lighting makes the characters seem to glow slightly--an effect that lends the moment a surreal warmth despite the darkness of what follows. Shot–reverse–shot cutting establishes a casual rhythm as the two men “catch up,” and aside from their chatter and laughter--strictly diegetic sound--the scene is quiet and low-key. Their blocking reinforces this laziness: the hit man leans against a row of filing cabinets while the other man slouches in his swivel chair, both staged with an offhand looseness that downplays tension.

This calm breaks abruptly when the men bring up the car accident. The hit man crosses into his friend’s space, pulls out a gun, and shoots him. Lynch uses this sudden shift to undercut the cozy, dimly lit setup with blunt violence. The attempted cover-up then spirals into slapstick: another accidental shot rings out, a woman next door yelps, and the hit man’s exasperated “Aw, man” punctuates his disbelief. The camera follows him in a series of messy, escalating mishaps--struggling with the injured woman, getting spotted by a janitor--turning the entire building into a chaotic maze. Through pacing, blocking, and sound, the scene adopts a clumsy, almost cartoonish rhythm that feels out of sync with the seriousness of a professional killing.

In the context of the film’s ending--where we learn Diane has hired this man to kill Camilla, and that much of the narrative is her dream--the scene’s comedic incompetence takes on meaning. In Diane’s dream world, Camilla (reimagined as Rita) is still alive. By depicting the hit man as terrible at his job, the dream symbolically protects Camilla, revealing Diane’s underlying hope that, in reality, the murder might fail. Lynch’s filmic choices--the soft lighting, relaxed staging, comedic pacing, and tonal mismatch--mirror Diane’s subconscious desire for an outcome where Camilla survives, even as her waking life tells her otherwise.